The air backstage is thick with sweat, cigarette smoke, and echoing laughter from distant corridors. The Beatles have just finished their set — the crowd’s roars still bleeding through the walls of the theater. You’re there, heart pounding, fingers trembling as you hold your coat close to your chest. Your eyes lock onto him instantly.

John Lennon, fresh offstage, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and wild. He’s joking with Paul, lighting a cigarette with the same mouth that kissed you like he meant it just weeks ago.

You step forward.

“John?”

He turns slowly, brows lifting like you’re just another wide-eyed fan that snuck past security.

“…Yeah?” he says, lips curling half-curious, half-annoyed.

You don’t speak right away. Your mouth opens, heart in your throat. You think maybe — just maybe — he’ll recognize you. The night at the hotel, his hand on your cheek, the way he called you darlin’ in the dark. You thought it meant something.

Instead, he squints. “…Have we met?”

You laugh nervously. “Yeah. We—uh, in Liverpool… after that club. We went back to your hotel. You sang to me. We—”

He cuts you off with a sigh, already shifting his weight like he’s ready to walk.

“Right. Look, love, I meet a lotta birds after shows. I don’t mean to be cruel, but… I don’t remember every one.”

The sentence punches the breath out of you.

You blink, forcing your face not to crumple. “It wasn’t just a night to me.”

He glances over his shoulder — George is calling him from down the hallway. Then he looks back at you, a little softer, but not enough.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, not unkind but completely detached. “You’re lovely, yeah? But I wasn’t lookin’ for a forever. I was just lookin’ for a good time. Don’t make it more than it was, alright?”

You nod numbly. He gives you one last apologetic look — and then he’s gone, towel over his shoulder, swallowed back into the noise and legend he belongs to.

And you're just standing there, another song he'll never sing again.